


Loaded

by wrabbit



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Comment Fic, Community: shkinkmeme, Drug Addiction, Formerly Anonymous, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-08
Updated: 2011-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-21 03:45:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrabbit/pseuds/wrabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson holds the needle to his own arm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loaded

**Author's Note:**

> Criticism: Welcome

Watson contemplated the point of the needle, dulled, with Holmes's coagulated blood in the tip of it. Watson understood addiction, but not the stimulation of cocaine that Holmes craved, that made his skin and eyes shine and his thoughts razor sharp. Used to make. Holmes didn't look amplified now; he looked shaky and his eyes were red.

Holmes's gaze skittered away and he rolled over on the couch, curling in on himself. Now would usually be the time that Watson would say something, even if just Holmes's name, and much later when Holmes was coming down and restless, they would argue. Argue about Holmes's thinness and the state of his heart; About the moral necessity for Holmes to be best able to do his work no matter how many meals he missed; About Watson and his business in Holmes's life, Holmes forcing Watson into silence with rage whenever Holmes tired of the argument.

Watson hesitated, turning the syringe in his hands. He rolled his sleeve up almost without thinking and sat, for a long time staring at the well-used and dulled device in his hand, doing nothing.

He lifted the tiny bottle from the table as well and prepared a small dose to see what it looked like when it wasn't disappearing into Holmes's scarred arm.

He pressed the dull tip of the needle to the inside of his arm just to feel it there.

"Watson." Holmes turned over, shock written all over his face. "No, don't."

Watson looked at him and held the prepared syringe still pointed at his skin and his blood streaming underneath.

"Why not?" he said, too tired to bother with questioning Holmes's motives, what he did and didn't do, anymore.

Holmes's face fell. He slid off the couch and crawled, on his knees, the few feet to Watson's chair. He pressed his face to Watson's knee, hands grazing restlessly against Watson's leg, the floor.

"Please, please," he said, over and over again. "Please. Just please, no, please don't."

Watson touched his fingers to Holmes's unkempt hair carefully. "Holmes?" he said.

At the sound of Holmes's sob he slid to the ground and wrapped his arms around him, gladly leaving the cocaine behind him. Holmes clutched Watson to himself wildly.

"I've got you," Watson said and kissed his head. "It's alright."

That night Holmes pressed the cocaine bottle into Watson's hands to dispose of where Holmes couldn't watch him do it.


End file.
